


Memory Lane

by Phoenix_Mary



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Mary/pseuds/Phoenix_Mary
Summary: A confiscated book send Jack on a trip down memory lane as he ponders temptation





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 1 at some point after Ruddy Gore, when Phryne hands Hugh /that/ book.  
> Hope I got the rating right, where is the line between M and Explicit? If not, let me know.  
> Does anyone else find that naming a piece is the hardest part of writing? Ergo the lame and somewhat unfitting "Memory Lane" (the working title was "Obscene" - which really was even worse)

Really, he has no choice but to confiscate that book. What was the lad thinking, bringing it into work. What was Miss Fisher thinking of passing on a book like that to a police officer. He closes the door to his office and hesitates only for a moment before curiosity wins out and he opens the book. Flicking through it, he occasionally stops, looking at illustrations. He didn’t know man and woman could fit together like that, and he’s seen more assignations than he cares for in the line of duty. He’s no longer the naive lad that married his sweetheart, but some of these things look terrifying. Right up Miss Fisher’s alley of course, he thinks with a wry smile and doesn’t superimpose their faces and bodies onto the drawings.

His and Rosie's courtship had been almost exceedingly proper, most of the times Victorian. Going out with her parents to the theatre, accompanying his to church. Rarely they managed to sneak away from their chaperone, but there were a few stolen kisses when no one was looking. That time before they got engaged and she let him put his hands over her dress and feel the tantalizing weight of her breasts in his hands. That other time where he thought he’d lost the sweet sweet girl that had just agreed to be his wife to his body’s betrayal – he’d always been so careful not to let her see his desire. They had stolen away one spring evening he remembers, wrapped around each other kissing she had felt so good. He hadn’t even realized he was rubbing himself against her until she had gotten scared by the strange thing that was growing between his legs and had pushed him away. Hard to believe that they were innocent once. They certainly had made up for that in their marriage, he thinks lost in happier times. At least in the beginning. So young and so in love. Their wedding night of course had been nerve wrecking. She had been terrified, lie back and think of England was what her mother had told her she later confided in him. And everyone knew that losing your maidenhead was exceedingly painful for a woman. He had held her that night, her derriere snug in his lap, closer than they’d ever been. His traitorous cock that felt her intimate heat and woke searching for it, but himself frozen in fear that he’d hurt her so bad that once this night was over he’d never be allowed back in their marriage bed. Never to feel her soft curves under his hands again, never be allowed to rest his head against her bosom again. He’d known of course that some women could find pleasure in men, and surely it would stop being painful once maidenhead was lost. He can’t imagine that women would willingly take lovers or turn to it as a profession if it always remains terrifyingly painful for them. They had figured it out eventually, even had fun discovering. She had liked when he touched her intimately, but had made it very clear that she hadn’t wanted his face any further south than her breasts when he tried. Hadn’t believed him either when he said Shakespeare gave him the idea and not something he’d seen at work. She used her hands on him sometimes, during her courses when they couldn’t have intercourse. Once, he had asked her to use her mouth, but she had choked on him and started crying and that had put an end to any experiments of that kind. Still, it had been nice. Nothing like the things described in the book of course, or the adventures Miss Fisher must have, but satisfying nonetheless. Life had seemed so full of possibilities then. Together they would face all that life would throw at them, not that they had foreseen much tragedy in their future. Then the war happened. How naïve he had been!

After the war, Rosie didn’t know what to do with him, he remembers. Her sweet boyish husband had gone to war, and back had come unapologetically a man, seeking to banish death and despair in the pleasures found in his wife’s flesh. He sometimes wondered if she would have preferred he’d taken a mistress or had sought the company of a prostitute to satisfy his carnal desires. Hadn’t understood that for months the only time he stopped hearing mortar fire, stopped smelling rotting flesh and decay was in those first few minutes after a satisfactory tryst; his nose pressed in the valley between her breasts and his whole body pleasantly numb in her arms. There, when he released his seed into her womb, was hope that he, who had seen and committed so much evil in the name of King and Country, could create life and find redemption. Until of course he could no longer ignore her distaste for his amorous appetite and her thoughts of England louder with every coupling. He wasn’t one to take what wasn’t offered willingly. And so, before she had moved out, Mr and Mrs Robinson fulfilled their marriage duty utterly dignified every Wednesday and Saturday with lights out under the covers and wholly unsatisfactory for both parties.

Jack sits back in his chair. He had avoided thinking about the intimacies of his marriage with Rosie for a long time. Is that why Miss Fisher seeks company so often? Is she washing away the blood of lost men with the lively vigour of other men in her boudoir? She must be able to find pleasure in it, and if pleasure blanks her mind like it used to do his, then really he’s not surprised she can dance nights away with a smile and stand tall despite the weight resting on her shoulders. But how can she expose herself to strangers’ night after night just like that. Even at its best, love making is messy, animal noises and weird faces and utterly vulnerable. Once, after Rosie had gone to her sister’s she had returned. After, he had been so overcome he had cried into her shoulder. She had been back at her sister’s by the time he returned home to look in on her during his lunch break. He can’t imagine exposing himself like that to anyone but his wife, and even that hadn’t ended well. It must be different for Phry- Miss Fisher.

He closes the book sharply and puts it away in one of his desk drawers. Suddenly tired, he rubs his eyes. He has no business thinking about Miss Fisher and her assignations. He is a married man. She may have barged into his life, a siren with milky skin and ruby lips standing before him like Venus incarnate, but he will not succumb to temptation. As she’s neither his wife nor his sister her motivations are not of his concern either, he tells himself sternly. Thoughts like these will bring only trouble. He focuses on the paperwork in front of him. His resolve lasts until she saunters into his office an hour later, spreading out documents that just found their way into her possession on his desk.

“Darn it. Papercut” she cusses softly, her finger vanishing in her mouth. For a moment, he’s transfixed. Would she use her mouth on… He drags his eyes away from her lips only to find that one of his hands is resting on the small of her back.

“Collins” he barks sharply. They need company before he succumbs and tries to find peace between her thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback is always appreciated :)  
> There is a Rosie-centric piece in the works that ties in with this, called [The Song Is Ended](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8268605)


End file.
